


Sending Out Flares

by EmmaArthur (EchoBleu)



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: 12 Days of Malex 2019, 3+1, Acts of Kindness, Alex and Michael are together through the end of the season, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Disabled Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Canon divergence from 1x03, Chronic Pain, Communication, Disability, Fluff, Happy Ending, Huddling For Warmth, Jesse Manes is a War Crime, M/M, Malex Secret Santa 2019, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Panic Attack, and comfort, bed sharing, mentions of abuse, talking things through
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21761656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoBleu/pseuds/EmmaArthur
Summary: Three times Alex doesn't quite let Michael take care of him, and one time he does.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 52
Kudos: 237
Collections: 12 Days Of Malex 2019





	Sending Out Flares

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nestra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nestra/gifts).

> For Nestra (@changingthingslikeleaves), this is your Malex Secret Santa gift! I didn't know exactly what you like, but you gave me three great prompts, so I tried to combine them into one story. It kinda got away from me and grew far longer than I intended, but I hope you like it!
> 
> The prompts were :  
\- Michael and Alex could never get their timing quite right. What if one of those near misses hadn't actually been a miss?  
\- Michael likes taking care of people, he just doesn't get enough opportunities to do so. He'd be really good at taking care of Alex.  
\- Michael and Alex actually being happy together about something. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Insidious Intent for being an amazing beta!

**1.**

“Isobel's gone.”

Alex looks up. He's still sitting on the bed, now fully dressed, but trapped in the trailer for as long as Isobel Evans was out in the yard. He swallows at the way Michael is looking at him, all disappointment and incomprehension.

“I'm sorry,” he mutters, looking at his knees.

“Is it that I'm not good enough for you?” Michael asks. “It stings, but I can't blame you.”

“It's not−” Alex starts, but he stops when he realizes he doesn't even know how to explain it. He makes a move to stand up, at least get on the same level as Michael, but the trailer is too small to move comfortably, and his prosthesis, put on in haste, twists when he tries to put his weight on it. He falls back with a wince.

“It is,” Michael spits out.

Alex shakes his head, a bit desperately. He opens his mouth again, but he can't find the right words, and he knows what he stands to lose if it comes out wrong.

“Then what is it, _Alex_?”

Alex takes a breath, trying to find that calm place in his mind he retreats to when things get heated. There. “I want to explain,” he says, almost coolly. “Please just give me a minute.”

“You've just had almost half an−” Michael starts, watching Alex grab his leg, grit his teeth and pull it back in place. “Oh. Sorry.”

“Can we talk outside?” Alex asks. “This is a bit cramped. And I think we need to actually talk.”

“If it's just to tell me that this is over, there's no point,” Michael sighs.

“No. Outside. Please.”

Michael blinks and nods. He gets down the steps he never left, holding the door open. Alex stands up, tests his leg carefully, and follows him out.

The burning sun does nothing to help Alex feel better about his morning. It started so well, though. He doesn't know what made him stay the night, for the first time since they hooked up almost two weeks ago, but waking up to Michael's body pressed against his made it all worth it. And it's the best sleep he's had in years, here in the cramped single bed of a badly insulated trailer.

Michael drags him to a couple of chairs laid out in the shade. He sits down and crosses his arms, pointedly waiting. Alex lowers himself into the other chair, regretting that he didn't get to do his PT before putting on his prosthesis.

“I don't think I'm too good for you,” he says quietly, not looking at Michael. “I'm not. If anything, I'm not good enough for you, but this isn't what this is about.”

He grimaces. This is overdue, but he's no good at talking. Being open and vulnerable. That was beaten out of him long ago.

“You're ashamed of me,” Michael says. “You don't want anyone to see us together.”

Alex sputters. “I'm not ashamed of you, I'm fucking terrified, okay?” he lets out, surprising himself. It's a scary thought to admit, and he hasn't, even to himself, until now.

Michael frowns, tilting his head. “You're already out,” he says.

“Guerin, last time someone saw us together−”

It's like a leaden weight has crashed on them. Michael closes his mouth, and his face falls. Alex's eyes fall to his scarred left hand, almost against his will.

“That's what this is about?” Michael asks in a small voice, after a moment has passed. Alex just bites his lip. “Isobel won't−”

“I know. You...you trust her, and it should be−it _is_ enough for me. But I still−”

“You're still scared,” Michael sighs. “You said it the other day, we're adults now.”

Alex looks down at his hands. “It's an ingrained response, I guess. DADT's been over for a while, but I never...I mean, I've been with other guys. Never, like, in public or anything. But with you−” he waves a hand, unsure how to express it.

“With me what, Alex?” Michael presses. “How is it different?”

“It's different because he hurt _you_!” Alex explodes. “Because he smashed your hand and he made it clear that he knew exactly how to make you disappear and _I_ put you in danger!”

He realizes, belatedly, that he's almost yelling, and Michael is watching him with wide eyes. Taking a breath, he folds back on himself, crossing his arms again. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Alex,” Michael starts, slowly and carefully. “Are you saying that your father threatened to kill me after he found us?”

“He almost did kill you,” Alex mutters.

“No. He didn't try to kill me. He tried to...teach me a lesson, or whatever that was in his mind, but he didn't try to kill me. I know the difference.”

Alex tries not to think of how Michael knows the difference. He does, too. Jesse Manes didn't set out to kill Michael that day, just like he never tried to kill Alex, only inflict pain.

“He tried to teach _me_ a lesson,” he says. “That he could do whatever he wanted to you without consequences. Including−”

“Including killing me,” Michael finishes. “Fuck. Did he...did he hurt you? For what we did?”

Alex doesn't answer, staring at his hands instead. He started this morning in bliss, caressing Michael's bare skin, and now he wants to curl up in a little ball and disappear.

“Fuck,” Michael repeats. “Alex−”

He stands up, coming closer. Alex full-body flinches when Michael puts a hand on his arm. Shit. He thought he'd gotten rid of these reactions. This is Michael, for God's sake.

Michael who immediately pulls back his hand. He crouches down instead, so that his face is just below Alex's line of sight. “Alex, I'm sorry,” he says. “I didn't−I didn't realize all this. I figured your father didn't want us together, that was quite obvious, but...I should have known.”

Alex wants to answer, but the words catch in his throat. “I'm sorry you've had to carry that on your own,” Michael adds.

Alex really chokes at that, his eyes filling with tears. “I didn't want you to know,” he murmurs. “As long as I was good and did what he wanted, you were safe from him. I didn't want you to be looking over your shoulder.”

“You enlisted to keep me safe?” Michael asks in a tiny voice.

Alex buries his head in Michael's shoulder instead of answering. It wasn't the only reason.

Just most of it.

He breathes in and out, as slowly as he can manage, his nose in Michael's tee-shirt, until his leg aches too much to stay still. He goes to push Michael away to stand up, but Michael just moves with him, supporting him up.

His wide, expressive eyes meet Alex's, full of confusion and gratitude and worry, and he brings their foreheads together.

“I'm not afraid of him,” he says. “I can defend myself now. And so can you.”

“Then why am I still scared?” Alex asks.

“Because you never got to take a break. But we can work on this together. If you want to.”

Alex closes his eyes against the tears. “Okay,” he murmurs.

Working on it together means that the very same day, when Jesse Manes tries to get into Alex's head at the drive-in, Michael is just close enough for Alex to feel his warmth.

“Do I embarrass you, Dad?” Alex asks, amusement warring with cutting sarcasm in his voice.

His father sneers, and Alex can guess what he wants to say, but he can't. Not right in front of Michael. Jesse Manes knows how to make his contempt visible, but it's not enough to get inside Alex's head. Not this time.

A small part of him reacts instinctively, though. He doesn't let Michael come any closer for a while, not as long as his Dad is close enough to see. He hates it, hates this gut reaction of dread, but he can't do anything about it.

But where he expected Michael's disappointment, there's only understanding in his eyes, when Jesse Manes leaves after speaking on stage−he doesn't actually care about the movie−and Alex reaches a hand out to put it on Michael's thigh.

“Old habits?” Michael asks in fake lightness.

Alex nods, not even trying to hide his relief and his guilt.

“I get it,” Michael murmurs in his ear, scooting closer on the truck's edge until their thighs touch. “I'm glad we talked.”

“Me too,” Alex says. He can't help eyeing their surroundings, but everyone has their eyes on the movie.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to jump you in public.” Michael's tone is light, teasing, not accusing. Alex breathes.

“Not even if I want you to?”

“You're a respected Airman, Alex,” Michael quotes mockingly. “You're too good for PDA.”

“Um, maybe,” Alex murmurs. “But later, though−”

“The Airstream?”

“Actually, I have a larger bed,” Alex says.

Michael freezes, for just a moment. It's a big step. “I don't even know where you live,” he admits.

“I have a cabin. It's about an hour out?”

“Okay,” Michael nods. “I can follow you there? After the end of the movie. So I'll have my car to come to work in the morning.”

In the morning. “Sounds good,” Alex says. He tries not to show how relieved he feels.

Michael shifts, puts a hand around his back, where it won't be visible to anyone watching them. Alex leans into the touch.

“Your dad doesn't get to win,” Michael murmurs. “You're stronger than him.”

Michael's scarred hand is resting on his thigh. Alex's eyes fall to it, and he has to swallow back a sob.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I'm not, not yet. But maybe _we_ are.”

**2.**

“What's going on?” Michael asks as soon as Alex opens the door of his cabin. He's made the drive in barely over forty-five minutes instead of the hour it's supposed to take, worry churning at his gut. It's Sunday, two weeks since Isobel was put into a pod and one of their first coinciding days off in a while. That Alex knows of, at least, because Michael has been inventing overtime to cover for the days he spends down in his bunker or at the lab with Liz. It's only one more lie on top of all the ones he's been keeping.

So when Alex texted to ask him to meet at his cabin instead of the Crashdown date they'd planned, Michael figured something must be wrong.

Alex looks tired, bags under his eyes and his features drawn. Michael looks away from his face to realize that he's leaning on crutches, his right pant leg pinned up below his knee. Michael frowns. He's never seen Alex without the prosthesis for longer than the time it takes him to shower in the morning.

“Nothing,” Alex says with a small smile. “Just a slow day. Come in.”

“Slow day?” Michael frowns.

Alex takes a step backward to allow him in, then turns toward the couch, letting Michael close the door behind him. “Do you want coffee?” he asks. “There's some ready, do you mind helping yourself?”

“Of course,” Michael says, taking in the couch, where Alex slowly−too slowly−lowers himself down, and the used mug on the coffee table, beside Alex's laptop and a bottle of pills. “Want me to top you up while I'm at it?”

He'll ask what's going on again, but it can wait until they're settled. Alex is obviously not in imminent danger.

“Sure,” Alex says, leaning to grab the mug and hands it to Michael. “Thanks.”

He pats the spot beside him on the couch when Michael comes back with two full mugs in hand, so Michael obeys and sits down. Their shoulders brush, and he can feel how tense Alex's body is, too tense for a “slow day” lounging on the couch in sweatpants.

“What's wrong, Alex?” he asks quietly.

Alex sighs. “Nothing. Not really.”

“I don't understand,” Michael bites his lip. He's missing something here. It's like Alex expects him to already know, but he doesn't.

He's been so busy, with Isobel and Max and Liz, so worried that they've barely seen each other. They text every day, at least, but it's not enough.

“I'm sorry I'm crashing our date,” Alex says. “I meant to come, but−”

It dawns on Michael suddenly. The pill bottle on the table, whose label he can't quite make out, the lack of prosthesis, the fatigue in Alex's gaze. “When you say slow day, you mean−”

“Bad day, yeah. I didn't really want you to see it, but I missed you. I didn't want to cancel again.” He doesn't meet Michael's eyes.

“Alex−”

“You can go, if you prefer. I'm not going to be good company.”

Michael gapes. “No! Alex...fuck. I don't want to go. I want to be where you are, okay?”

The surprise is Alex's gaze, when he looks up, is real.

“I just...didn't expect this. I should have, I just never _thought_.”

“What do you mean?” Alex frowns.

“I didn't even know you had...what do you call it, chronic pain?” Alex nods. “I keep thinking that I'm actually starting to know you, and then something new comes up and I'm floored. It's not, like, a bad thing,” Michael adds when he sees the look on Alex's face. “I just get surprised.”

“You're saying that we don't talk enough?” Alex asks, hesitant.

“I don't know, maybe?” Michael grimaces. He thinks about everything he's still hiding and winces. Is he digging his own grave?

“We could,” Alex says. “Talk. Today, if you want to. It's not like I'm up for anything else.”

“Okay,” Michael nods slowly. He stays silent for a moment, trying to think about how to ask his questions. Alex beats him to the punch.

“There's something I've been meaning to ask you,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. Michael moves along to give him space. “I found out about some stuff my dad was up to. Illegal stuff.”

Michael blinks, trying to guess where this is leading. “Conspiracy stuff,” Alex adds, and the bottom of Michael's stomach drops.

“He had some documents about you,” Alex confirms his fears. “At first, I thought he targeted you because of me, but I've been thinking. Maybe you're going to tell me it's absurd, it kinda feels like it is, but...are you an alien?”

Michael freezes.

There it is. He's been dreading this, but he's also wanted to tell Alex ever since he came back to Roswell. He gave Max such a hard time for telling Liz, but how much of that was really jealousy?

At the same time, if Alex's father is involved in some kind of conspiracy, if he already _knows_ about him and Isobel and Max…

Fuck. What can he do? He can't just laugh it off. Even if he wanted to keep lying to Alex, it feels like it's already too late.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, too fast, out of breath.

Alex watches him for a moment. It must show on his face, how terrified Michael is. It has to. He realizes, a little late, than any reaction other than laughing it off is probably confirmation.

“I don't have anything conclusive,” Alex says. “From what I read on the darknet, and what I found in the bunker, it seems pretty obvious that aliens do exist. And you being in Roswell, the way you were found in the desert...I don't know, it seems possible? Then I started thinking about how hot you run, and how you never even went to the hospital for your hand, and mostly how strange you and Liz have been behaving lately. Something's going on. And then−”

“Then?”

Alex takes a breath. “I'm pretty sure that Max is an alien. And that would mean that you are, too.”

“Why Max?” Michael asks. He's too scared to answer anything else.

“Stuff Kyle said,” Alex waves the matter away. “If it's that you can't tell me, I'll take anything other than a no as a confirmation,” he adds. “I know something about classified intel.”

Michael hesitates, and that's confirmation enough. But he holds up a hand before Alex can speak again.

“Yes,” he says, his voice lower and less confident than he'd like. “I'm an alien. And I've never told anyone before.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Alex whispers. “I understand why it's...dangerous, for you. Especially with my father−”

“We'll have to talk about this,” Michael says. “If there's someone in this town who knows about us and wants to harm us, I need to know. But−”

“But?”

“Not right now. I'm...I'm amazed that you haven't run away yet, but I'm sure you have questions. The more personal kind.”

“Of course,” Alex nods. “I want to know who you are. But I doubt there's anything I can learn that will make me run away.”

Michael thinks about Rosa and the other girls, about the man in the desert, the secrets he's still going to have to keep. There's plenty, he thinks, that would horrify Alex. “Even if I told you I've killed people?” he asks almost against his will. He winces. This isn't testing the waters, this is just foolish.

“I'd want to know why, and I might not be okay with it,” Alex says slowly. “But I wouldn't run away. And not just because I currently can't run.”

Both of their gazes flicker to his stump.

“I was in the Air Force for ten years, Guerin,” Alex says. “Would _you_ run away, if I tell you that I've killed? Because I have.”

Michael shivers at the bitterness of his tone, but not in fear. “No,” he shakes his head. “But it's different.”

“Because my government asked me to?”

Michael nods.

“It doesn't always make it more justified,” Alex says darkly. “It certainly doesn't make it right.”

“I haven't,” Michael mutters, swallowing hard. “I haven't killed anyone. But I have...abilities, that can be dangerous.”

He raises his hand, floating his coffee mug above the table.

“Wow,” Alex murmurs.

Michael turns toward him sharply, letting the mug crash back on the table with a loud thud. Alex's expression is one of wonder, not fear.

“It doesn't scare you?” Michael asks.

Alex shrugs. “Not really. I trust you.”

“I don't understand how you're not more...disturbed.”

“You know I'm a sci-fi nerd, right?” Alex smiles. “So maybe I've only seen aliens or...telekinesis on TV and in books, and it wasn't real, but it doesn't feel brand new to me. And I've had time to imagine a wide range of things in the last few weeks.”

“You've been wondering if I'm an alien for that long? And you didn't say anything?”

“I barely saw you,” Alex shrugs.

“Right,” Michael bites his lip. “I haven't really been picking up extra shifts.”

“I figured.”

“You did? I'm sorry I lied. But there's...a lot, and some of it isn't really mine to tell.”

“I understand that,” Alex nods. “I'd really like to know as much as possible though, especially if I'm going to stop my father from executing his plans, whatever they are.”

“Let me get us more coffee, then,” Michael says. Alex nods, so he stands up and, just for the sake of it, levitates both of their mugs instead of taking them in his hands.

“I wish I could do that when I’m on crutches,” Alex mutters behind his back. Michael snorts without looking at him. He’s not sure, yet, if he’s relieved that Alex now knows, or if it’s going to be an added source of stress. Isobel is probably going to kill him. Although he can always tell her that Alex figured it out on his own−it is, after all, the truth. Michael is not sure that will calm her down at all.

Then he remembers that Isobel is in stasis in a pod, fighting for her life while Liz tries to make her an antidote. He groans.

“What’s wrong?” Alex asks, and Michael realizes that he’s stopped short on the way to the kitchen.

“Nothing,” he shakes his head. He needs to figure out what he can tell Alex of this whole mess. He doesn’t want to hide his fear for Isobel anymore, but he can’t imagine telling Alex about Rosa. Not yet.

He fills their mugs from the still warm pot on the counter, and comes back to find Alex popping a couple of pills out of the bottle he noticed earlier.

“Painkillers,” Alex confirms his suspicion with a grimace, rinsing them down with a sip of coffee. Michael sits back down beside him, folding his leg under him. He’s glad Alex isn’t trying to hide his pain, though his tense posture makes him want to give him a massage or something. He’s not sure that would even help.

“Does this happen often?” he asks instead, curiosity getting the better of him.

“What?”

“Slow days.”

Alex shrugs and bites his lip. “It’s hard to draw a line between good and bad days,” he says. “If I walk too much, or wear the prosthesis for too long, I sometimes need to rest my leg for a day or so.”

“I was thinking of the pain,” Michael clarifies.

“Oh.” Alex hesitates, shifting and taking another sip of his coffee. “It’s, um...it’s worse some days than others. If I overdo it, and...sometimes for no reason.”

“Like today?”

“Yes. Phantom pain is pretty much random. It’s never really not there, but it’s usually manageable.”

“How did I miss it?” Michael wonders aloud. He’s no stranger to pain, even chronic pain, though his hand only hurts when he tries to use it actively, for the most part. His eyes fall to the scars covering his fingers.

“I guess we mostly saw each other casually?” Alex says. “It’s not like we’re living together.”

Michael bites his lip. “I’m sorry I didn’t−” he starts.

“I didn’t tell you,” Alex stops him. “I didn’t show you. I don’t usually advertise it.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

Alex smiles, and cups Michael’s face with one hand. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I almost just canceled today.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. You shouldn’t be ashamed of being in pain.”

Alex makes an aborted motion with his hand, like he wants to say something, but he shakes his head and sits up a little straighter, wincing. “So, tell me about this alien thing.”

Michael can recognize the yearning in his voice, the wish to change the subject to something that will take his mind off the pain, so he obeys. He tells Alex everything he can, about the differences in their biology−how they only really knew about the acetone, until Liz came along and tested Max’s blood−, about coming out of pods fifty years after the crash with no memories, about making a pact never to tell anyone. He leaves out Rosa, and Isobel’s current predicament, but only for now, he promises himself. Until he’s had the opportunity to really think about it, to talk with Max, maybe. He wishes he could hash it out with Isobel, but she’s not going to give him any brilliant ideas from the inside of her pod.

At Alex’s prompting−“I want to know about you, Guerin”−he speaks about the foster families, about finding Isobel and Max again, and even about his obsession with spaceships. “I have a bunker, under my trailer,” he says. “I’ll show you, someday.” When you’re feeling better, he doesn’t say. He can feel that Alex wouldn’t appreciate it right now.

Alex’s quiet, heartfelt “thank you for telling me all this,” when Michael falls quiet, feels like a larger step in their relationship than “I never look away,” or even the “I love you” that’s escaped both of them in the dark, in bed. And sitting here cuddling in the cabin’s old leather couch, Alex’s tension slowly melting away as the painkillers take effect, there’s a stronger connection between them than there has been in the last ten years of cosmic, heartbreaking pining from afar and wordless sex.

**3.**

“You're trying to leave the planet.” Alex's voice comes out flat, emotionless. That's how his body is, the more violent the storm in his head, the calmer he appears outwardly.

When he's with someone else, anyway.

His instinct is to run, find somewhere safe and secluded where he can break down. Michael is looking at him like nothing's wrong, like he didn't just tell him something world-changing, and of course it isn't for him, is it, it's been his project all along, he was never going to−

Alex swallows around the bubbling dread growing in him.

“It's nowhere near finished,” Michael says, gesturing at the alien glass in front of them, and any remaining hope Alex might have had that he's wrong is crushed. “I'm still missing a lot of pieces.”

“Of course,” Alex murmurs, thinking of the piece that's sitting in his backpack right now.

He'll need to give it to Michael, of course. He re-centers himself around that thought. It works, it always works, thinking of what he needs to do for other people, to calm down the anguish. His feelings don't matter. The piece of the ship belongs to Michael, and he deserves to have it. He deserves to see his projects come to completion.

Even if it means he'll leave forever. After all, Alex deserves nothing else. The last few months, navigating their new relationship, gave him a fool's hope, but how could he ever be good enough for someone like Michael? For a beautiful, gentle alien genius? Him, a flawed, broken human?

He'll give Michael the piece of alien glass. And then…

No, he can't think about that. There is no then. Whatever happens next will be in Michael's hands only.

Alex won't run. He won't walk away so he doesn't get hurt, not this time. Because if he can let anyone hurt him−

_Might as well be you._

“There's a storm coming,” he scrambles for something to say, Michael's gaze on him too much to handle. “We shouldn't stay here.”

“We could,” Michael shrugs. “This is a storm shelter.”

Alex looks around him, swallowing hard. He'll stand by his decision, but he can't bear to look at the console. He can't be stuck here for hours with the reminder that all Michael wants is to leave.

“No,” he shakes his head.

“This is where I sleep during storms,” Michael insists, gesturing to a cot in a corner, covered with stacks of papers and books. “The Airstream's not safe, even with my powers.”

“It's cold down here,” Alex says, using the first excuse in his mind. It's true. It's cold enough that he's stuck his hands in his pockets and his fingers are still aching. It's also dusty, despite Michael's clear effort to keep the place clean. Grimacing, Alex takes his right hand out of his pocket to check the time on his phone. “We could go to my place,” he says. “We still have enough time to drive over.” The last thing he wants is to be snowed in the bunker during a storm.

His brain is still shouting at him to run, to get away from this place and Michael before he breaks down. Especially with the storm coming. It's going to be a rough few hours.

But then, if he's going to open up to Michael, he might as well do it all the way.

Michael watches him searchingly for a moment, then nods. “Alright,” he says. “If you want.”

The drive there in Alex's SUV is silent and awkward, in a way they haven't been with each other in weeks. Alex is hyper aware of the console piece in his backpack behind his seat, and Michael periodically fidgets with his hands like he wants to say something. He keeps massaging the crooked fingers of his left hand like they hurt.

Alex feels the way his stump protests against the pressure as he pushes on the pedals, the soreness not just around the skin but deep in the bones of his leg. He rolls his shoulder, a long healed injury−from the same night as Michael's hand, he thinks absently−aching from the cold and humidity.

“Is it the storm?” he asks Michael.

“Um?”

“Your hand is hurting. Is it because of the weather?”

Michael nods. “How do you know?”

“Leg's aching too. And I've had my fair share of broken bones that still act up sometimes,” Alex shrugs.

Michael watches him, inscrutable, and they fall silent again. Alex gives up on trying to find something to talk about and focuses on the road. He's too unsettled to keep pretending, and Michael isn't helping.

When he pulls up in front of the cabin, the wind has picked up and it's raining. Alex drives the car as close as possible to shelter. It's not going to be a huge storm, but it's coming down on them fast, and the forecast predicted snow. He takes a deep breath before opening his car door and limp-running to the cabin.

Michael follows him, and he has the door unlocked and open before Alex can put his key in the lock. Alex feels a spike of annoyance. Is that how it's going to be now? Is every proof of Michael's alienness going to bother him, because it reminds him that Michael doesn't want to be here?

He's shivering as he makes it inside. The temperature drop was sudden, and the cabin isn't much warmer than the outside. Michael closes the door behind them and shakes himself like a wet dog. Alex would snort out loud if the laughter didn't catch in his throat.

“We cut it pretty close, I think,” Michael says. “At least we didn't get drenched.”

Alex doesn't answer, bending to take off his shoes. He doesn't like to wear his prosthetic without them, but they would just drag water and mud everywhere. He's careful with his balance as he stands back up.

“Alex,” Michael puts a hand on his shoulder when he moves to go somewhere else−anywhere else. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Alex shakes his head. “I'm fine.”

Michael ignores his answer. “Is it pain? Or is it something I did?”

Alex blinks. Michael actually has no idea what hearing his plans did to him.

Wordlessly, Alex opens his bag, and pulls out the console piece. He looks at it for a second, the shimmering surface as mesmerizing as ever, then he puts it down on the table. The glass make a thud hitting the wood, but Michael doesn't move, watching him with his mouth open.

Alex closes his eyes and looks away before Michael can say anything. He walks over to his bedroom, leaving the door open.

He hesitates. Removing his prosthesis would relieve at least some of the pain he's in, but it will also make him far less mobile. He might need to go outside, if something gets knocked over by the wind, or go down to the storm shelter underneath the cabin.

He hates storms. He's grateful to be home, at least, not down in Michael's bunker or on the road. He reminds himself that Michael can move just about anything with his mind, and the storm shouldn't be bad enough to put the cabin at risk. He's just done removing his leg and putting sweat pants on when he looks up to see Michael standing in the door frame, without the console piece.

“Where did you find it?” he asks.

“Here,” Alex shrugs. “Jim Valenti had it. I don't know how he got it and why he hid it here. I figured it was probably alien, but I didn't know what it was until today.”

Michael doesn't ask why Alex didn't show it to him before. He just stands there, the tension between them thick and suffocating.

Thunder claps outside, and Alex freezes. For an instant, his brain flashes back to another desert, another small house in the middle of nowhere, that one made of clay. The claps of gunshots. He shivers and wraps his arms around his middle, still sitting on his bed.

“You okay?” Michael asks, frowning.

Alex nods, without looking at him. He's probably not very convincing, but it's all he's got, when his brain can't make string words together.

“Can I touch you?”

Michael took two steps closer while Alex was trying to hold on to the present, his feet now only inches from Alex's. Alex scrambles back onto the bed before he realizes what he's doing.

“Hey, it's okay,” Michael steps back immediately, raising his hand in a gesture of peace. “I'm staying right there, okay?”

“I'm fine,” Alex mutters, but it seems less credible every time he says it. He backs up against the headboard and pulls his legs up to his chest, though it's a terrible position without his prosthesis, where he has to hold his residual limb in place. He knows he's ridiculous.

Lightning illuminates the dimly-lit room briefly. Alex can't bring himself to look at Michael, his presence both anchoring and humiliating. He tries to concentrate on his breathing instead. In. Out. Count backwards. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen. Crack. Fuck. He ducks his head between his knees, as gunfire echoes in his ears. There's not even a visual, this time. Just the sounds.

He yelps when he feels a hand on his arm.

“Alex!”

Dammit. Michael is sitting beside him on the bed, probably trying to pull him out of it. Alex forces himself to breathe deeply. He's in his cabin. Michael switched on the light in the bedroom, and it's a little easier to keep his focus. There's no danger, everything's fine. Alex curses his brain again. This is the worst time for a panic attack.

Shaking himself, he scoots over a little and pats the space beside him for Michael to come closer. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Michael says. “Do you need anything?”

“I'm not a fan of storms,” Alex admits.

“That's alright. I used to hate them,” Michael answers.

“You don't anymore?”

Michael shrugs. “If I don't have to be in my truck, I don't.”

“Oh.” Alex didn't think of that. He still doesn't know how long Michael lived in his truck for, exactly, but he can't think of a good way to ask.

It pulls him out of his panic, though. By the noise of the wind hurling at the windows, the storm isn't going away anytime soon. He can't keep getting pulled into flashbacks. He needs a game plan.

He extends his legs in front of him, slowly, only now noticing how cold he is. The tension between him and Michael is still there, but not as strong−mostly because Alex doesn't have the focus to maintain it. He moves to get under the blankets, and Michael follows, raising an eyebrow.

“I'm cold,” Alex shrugs. It doesn't answer Michael's implied question−it's the middle of the day, so lying in bed is not the most obvious activity they could be doing.

“Are we huddling for warmth?” Michael asks, amused.

Alex sticks out his tongue at him, too frazzled to think of a better comeback. Michael laughs.

“I can get you something warm to drink,” he says.

Alex shakes his head and pulls him closer instead. Michael's skin is warm as always, and Alex wonders idly if that has to do with him being an alien. He forbids his brain from going down that train of thought.

At the next bolt of lightning, Alex starts counting. He does it under his breath, but Michael picks it up and mouths the numbers with him. Five, six, seven. Thunder claps again, but this time, he's ready. He only flinches a little.

“You good?” Michael asks.

“Yeah, I think,” Alex says, and this time he's sincere.

Michael opens his mouth and closes it again, like he's keeping himself from saying something. He worries at his lip for a moment, before Alex decides to break the tension. If he doesn't, it's just going to fester.

“Whatever it is, you can say it,” he says.

He expects questions about his PTSD, but that's not what's on Michael's mind. “Why did you react so strongly to the console? Compared to me being an alien, it's nothing.”

Alex shakes his head. “I just… You don't want to be here.”

“That's not what I said,” Michael frowns.

“You want to go to space,” Alex says, pulling away from him. He cradles the blankets tighter to his body, but it doesn't compensate for Michael's warmth. “You want to leave.”

Michael looks lost. “I do. But it's not the same thing as not wanting to be here.”

“How is it not?”

Michael considers him for a moment, biting his lip. “It used to be the same,” he says slowly, holding a hand up when Alex opens his mouth. Alex nods curtly, letting him speak. “Look, before we knew each other, and then the whole time you were gone...I didn't have anything to look forward to here, you know? No parents, and I love Max and Isobel but they have their own lives, better adjusted than mine. They see their future here on Earth, as humans. But I never did. I always knew I didn't belong, that I wasn't wanted here.”

Alex looks away in shame. _I wasn't wanted here._ However much he didn't want to, he knows he contributed to this. They were two lost souls who found each other, in high school. Alex enlisted to protect Michael, but in the process, he also left him alone. And he knows that feeling all too well. _I wasn't loved,_ he told Kyle not so long ago. He's never had someone to stay for, before Michael.

“I understand,” he says, even if it tears him apart. Michael deserves to have his own dreams. Alex can't give him what he's looking for. He can't give him a home, a place where he belongs. He can't give back what Michael's already given him.

“No, no, I wasn't finished,” Michael says hurriedly. Alex's eyes snap back to him. “It's not how I feel anymore. I still want to maybe find my people, or build the ship so I have the option to explore the universe. But I don't want to _leave_.”

“What's changed?”

“You, silly.” Michael flicks a hand on Alex's shoulder. “You came back. You're here, and you somehow still want me.”

Alex stares at him for a moment, uncomprehendingly, but the warmth spreading in his chest definitely doesn't come from the still-dropping temperature. He smiles, suddenly feeling shy.

“I do,” he murmurs. “I don't want either of us to leave.”

“Neither do I,” Michael responds in kind.

Alex shifts closer to him, sticking his cold hands under Michael's warm body. “Still cold?” Michael asks, his grin turning flirty.

“Uh huh,” Alex nods.

“Come here, then.”

When the thunder rolls again, quieter and further away this time, Alex doesn't flinch at all.

**+1**

“You're awake!”

Michael is far too cheerful, elbowing his way into the bedroom with a tray in his hands. Alex rubs his eyes and forces himself to sit up in bed, fatigue warring with the need to move. He didn't manage to get up when Michael did, and he was in and out of consciousness while Michael sang off-key in the shower, then whistled some random song in the kitchen while, apparently, making breakfast. The tray is overflowing, too small to contain the large plate of pancakes, the syrup, coffee for two and an orange juice bottle. Alex is pretty sure Michael is balancing it all with telekinesis.

“What is this?” he asks, yawning.

“Breakfast in bed!”

The tray lands, seemingly on its own, on the empty side of the bed, then seconds later it is joined by Michael, in sweats and socks, after he's fully opened the window blinds. Alex blinks against the light and feels Buffy, the five-year-old beagle he's been fostering for a few months, climb onto the bed as well, settling her head on his foot.

“Hey girl,” Alex murmurs, scratching her back, before he turns back to Michael. “I can see that. But why?”

“Do we really need a reason? We both have the day off, so why not?”

Alex raises a doubtful eyebrow.

“Okay, I could tell you weren't feeling so hot last night, and I wanted you to take it easy this morning, that's all,” Michael admits. “You've been working so hard on Project Shepard the last few months, you deserve some down time now that it's over.”

It's true, Alex has to give him that. He's been working every night on dismantling his father's work, often late, on top of his day job at the base for five months. They had drinks to celebrate the official end of all sanctioned and unsanctioned military operations concerning aliens two days ago, as well as Max's return to work after a long recovery from actual resurrection. Alex has been feeling under the weather ever since, though the flu-like symptoms are probably just the physical manifestation of his fatigue.

He still frowns at the pancakes, not completely satisfied.

“You keep making all these gestures, do things for me, and I don't know what you want in return,” he says.

Michael has been spending more and more time at the cabin lately, enough that he now has his own toothbrush and his own drawer in Alex's closet. They had a rough patch after Michael lost both his just-found mother and his brother in the same twenty-four hours. Alex still blames himself for some of that, for not planning better and anticipating his family's cruelty, but they both fought the pain and the weight of their past and their relationship somehow held through.

“Someone once told me that people can be nice to each other for no reason sometimes,” Michael answers.

Alex smiles to hear his own words said back at him, more than a decade later. “You've been doing a lot,” Michael continues. “Most of it for me and my family.”

“I needed to do it for myself, too,” Alex interrupts him, thinking of his father, still recovering from the head wound Kyle gave him, and now hopefully harmless to anyone Alex cares about.

“Anyway, we both deserve some time just for us,” Michael finishes.

“Doesn't time for us mean we're supposed to do things together? Rather than you making breakfast for me?” Alex asks.

“It means we're supposed to do things that we enjoy,” Michael says. “I thrive on taking care of people. But Max won't let me help him, I think Isobel is starting to like you more than me, and you're too independent to let me in. I need someone!”

Alex laughs.

“Okay, I _could_ let you take care of me,” he says.

“I know you don't like it.”

“It's not that I don't like it, exactly. It's...complicated. I want to prove that I can take care of myself, I don't want to depend on someone, even if it's you. And it's−it's hard to let anyone in.”

“You've never had anyone to take care of you,” Michael states.

“Not like that,” Alex bites his lip. “Nurses, doctors...but it's not the same. I don't want you to become my nurse.”

“That's not what I want either,” Michael answers quickly, throwing his hands up. “I love you, and I like taking care of people. That's all.”

_That's all_ . It's not about his disability, it's not about Alex _needing_ to be taken care of. It's about Michael wanting to.

Alex nods, tears coming to his eyes. “Then I'll let you,” he murmurs, pulling Michael closer by his collar. The kiss is sweet and soft, tender. “I love you too.”

“Scoot over,” Michael tells him when they pull apart, with a little shooing hand motion. Alex can't help snorting in laughter. He moves until he's sitting against the headboard, his pillow behind his back. Michael places the tray between them. “Dig in.”

“Okay,” Alex obeys, silently laughing at being ordered around. “As you wish.”

“You've got food in the kitchen if you want,” Michael tells Buffy sternly, catching her paw to keep her from exploring the contents of the tray. The dog licks his face instead, triggering some fake-disgusted noises from Michael. Alex watches them interact with amusement.

His phone beeps with a text from the nightstand and he grabs it, almost reflexively. He yelps when it leaps out of his hand and into Michael's.

“No work,” Michael growls.

“You don't even know if it's work,” Alex raises his eyebrows.

Michael frowns, thinking, then hands him back the phone with a reluctant, “Fine.”

“Here, it's not work,” Alex shows him the screen. “It's the animal shelter. Am I allowed to look?”

“I just want you to relax today,” Michael deflates.

“I know. I promise I will, okay? Look, I'm all relaxed.” Alex spreads his arms and lies his head back against the headboard in a show of relaxation.

Michael chuckles. “Okay, okay,” he raises his hands in defeat. “What does the animal shelter want?”

Alex unlocks his phone to look at the text. “They...oh,” he blurts out, reading.

“Alex?”

“Buffy's adoption papers came through,” Alex says, swallowing back his emotion. He's been waiting for this since falling in love with the older dog at the shelter and bringing her home, days before the Caulfield disaster.

“She's yours?”

Alex nods, putting his phone down. He picks Buffy up from the bed and brings her closer to his face. “You're officially part of the family now, Buffy,” he says. “What do you say?”

Buffy gives his cheek a good lick, and Alex laughs. He looks back at Michael, who has a wide smile on his face. “That's wonderful news!” Michael grins.

The joy in his eyes is as real as it gets, and Alex suddenly knows it's the right time. “We have one more person to adopt, though, Buffy, don't we?” he tells the dog.

Buffy yaps and licks Alex's face again. “That's right,” he says. “Michael, will you move in with us?”

Michael's smile turns into awe, then pure happiness. Careful of the tray still between them, he leans over to hug them both, a tear falling down his cheek. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Of course.”

“Welcome to the family,” Alex whispers in his ear, before cupping his neck and kissing him over Buffy's head.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it and I would love to hear your thoughts! I'm also @emma-arthur on Tumblr if you want to come chat and flail with me.


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